


Misbegotten

by MysticRyter



Series: Fire Emblem AU [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Fire Emblem AU, Gen, I've been sitting on this for literally forever, Phoenix is in his hobo nick personal when he and edgeworth meet, Slight Role Reversal, This'll be interesting, instead of the other way around, so edgeworth is the one that has that indescribable amount of faith in phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 14:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11625522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticRyter/pseuds/MysticRyter
Summary: It was easier for Phoenix Wright to think Miles Edgeworth was dead. It was nearly two decades since he last saw him as a boy in their tiny little village. Maybe that's why it was so hard to see an old friend ride under the enemy's banner.





	Misbegotten

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This AU was dreamed up by my friend sheepyseconds on tumblr, and I was just swept along for the ride. Catch me at my main tumblr lawyersuperpowers, or my writing tumblr superwrites!
> 
> And for reference: Helianthus and the Helianthites refers to the defense attorney kingdom, and Ortus and the Ortans refer to the prosecutor kingdom.

Phoenix supposed it was fortunate the tipping point hadn't come sooner, while he was still a Helianthite soldier. He had to admit, it was fun while it lasted, but he wasn’t sure he could serve under any other commander. There wasn’t anyone quite as amazing as Mia Fey; the only other commander as well-known as her was Aura Blackquill, who was quite a bit younger, and quite a bit fiercer. He only met her a couple times, and as much as he respected her, keeping his distance was more preferable.

As for now? His gaze slid to the young man beside him. Apollo Justice had only began serving in Phoenix’s old platoon recently before he defected. A skilled archer, but he had hardly any real knowledge of tactics and warfare. He did pick some things up from the new commander ( _Gavin_ , Phoenix wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought of the man), though he never really took to heart the lessons he tried to impart.

Phoenix tried to teach him what he could, when he could. Apollo was a fast learner, thankfully, but he had the charisma that Phoenix lacked. Well, not _l_ _acked_ , but after two years of raising a child, constantly hearing his name and reputation dragged through hell and back, it was just . . .  _exhausting_.

He had to hold in a chuckle. Maybe being an asshole saved more energy. He was pushing thirty, and taking care of a _draconic_ bundle of energy sure did a number on his knees, not to mention his back.  

“What is it, Mr. Wright?” Apollo asked. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the horizon. Even if he didn’t know it yet, he was putting that dragon blood of his to good work.

This time, Phoenix let out a chuckle for real. “I told you, you could always call me ‘Phoenix,’ Mr. Justice.”

Apollo only rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _asshole_. Well, he wasn’t _wrong_ , Phoenix supposed. “What do you see?”

“It’s not the Ortan Grand Army,” Apollo began. “It’s at least a platoon or two. And that’s only counting the ground units. They could have fliers waiting.”

Phoenix slapped his palm on Apollo’s shoulder, flashing a lopsided grin. “Good job kid.” He turned over to the young girl skipping through the grass. “Hey Truce?”

Trucy bounded over, narrowing her eyes at the horizon. “Looks about right, Daddy!”

Apollo had winced from the force of Phoenix’s slap, but he puffed out his chest a bit when Trucy just confirmed what he saw. The older man couldn’t help but snort.

“Apollo,” Phoenix nodded at their ragtag team. “Get the kids—get the  _troops_ ready?”

The young archer bobbed his head, his telltale locks waving in the breeze. “Right!”

“I’m right here, Apollo.”

Trucy giggled. “It’s still not funny Daddy.”

Phoenix shrugged. “You still laughed, though.”

His hand had found its way to the hilt of his sword. Watching Apollo Justice grow into a young leader over the course of several months, watching him learn to lead a minuscule group to victory after victory, he had to admit it was something of a privilege.

And of course, there was still the issue of the dragonstone in the kid’s bracelet.

Eh, that could be taken care of later. They had bigger things to worry about at the moment.

Like the fact that most of their troops _were_ kids. Even if it was technically on volunteer basis, Apollo was on the oldest side of the spectrum, and Pearl Fey was about Trucy's age with no combat magic, even if she wasn’t on the front lines. And each and every one of those kids had their own share of traumas.

Maya Fey had they legacy of a millennia-old village to carry on. Ema Skye was sharpening her Bolt Lance, and Phoenix knew that the unopened pouch on her saddle held a Bolganone tome meant for whoever took her sister away. Kay Faraday was peppy, but Phoenix knew that every Master Ninja knew a dozen ways to kill with their bare hands, especially when they had a reason to fight, and Kay was running out of fingers to count those reasons. Klavier Gavin had returned to the battlefield on his own volition, but Phoenix could catch him sneaking guilty glances at the Feys, like it was his fault their village burned. Clay Terran always pasted a smile on, even if it was only for Apollo’s sake, like the near-constant fighting had gotten to him too.

Trucy had the blood of ancients slumbering in her, a power that could wipe out platoons, or even entire armies. She had the memory of her own mother, and there were some things Phoenix knew she was hiding.

And as for Phoenix? He just had a friend or two that he simply didn’t know anymore. Time took them to other places. He had to remind himself it didn’t matter that one was on the other side of the battlefield. He had his reputation tainted, dragged through the mud by someone he thought was a respected fellow warrior. He had rumors spread like a disease, blaming him for Mia Fey’s death.

Blaming him for starting a war that was already in the works for over a decade.

It didn’t matter whether he was Helianthite or Ortan. Not anymore.

He shook himself out of it as Trucy tugged at an armor strap. “Your pauldron’s loose again, Daddy.”

Phoenix chuckled, adjusting the buckle. “What would I do without you Trucy?”

It was rhetorical, of course. If it wasn't for her, well, he was sure that Trucy was perceptive enough to cobble together a good guess, even at her young age. Life had been hard, and he was tired.

Trucy shot him another radiant smile as he tugged at the other straps of his armor, skipping to join the rest of their group.

The Ortans were waiting for the attack. That, Phoenix was absolutely sure of, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. They had every advantage: troops, weaponry, layout of the battlefield. Phoenix never doubted the strength the kids had. Brigands were never a challenge, and they could take any isolated group of soldiers they might come across, but this was several _platoons_ , and if his gut was right, the legendary Great Knight Manfred von Karma would be leading them.

He heard the rumors about von Karma. Cold, merciless, calculating, he heard it all. His demeanor was just as severe as his tactics. He commanded with an iron fist and a cold glare. His troops bowed down to his authority out of fear.

Phoenix shivered. He couldn’t imagine following anyone like that. Mia taught him that willingness to fight, to put one’s own life before others, came from the heart. True ferocity on the battlefield was something that simply couldn’t be forced, he supposed.

The sharp neigh of Ema’s (borrowed; she liked to remind everyone that) pegasus snapped Phoenix out of his reverie, and he focused on the outline of von Karma and his two pupils at his side, leading the Ortan troops. They had been approaching steadily, but never charging. And they were close enough so that no one needed a draconic ability to see them.

Apollo had stepped back to Phoenix’s side, something like the embers of a fire beginning to spark in his eyes. The older man smiled, gesturing towards the small force they gathered over the months.

Their family.

* * *

As always, Phoenix never strayed too far from Trucy when the combat really got going. Her magic could blast back a number of enemies, especially when she started tapping into her draconic powers. Nowadays, he and Apollo fell into an easy rhythm on the battlefield, keeping foes away while she was free to wreak havoc.

Shadows dotted the ground, and Phoenix allowed himself a second’s distraction from the battle. They sent a platoon of their pegasus knights, the Ortan breeds matching the black of Ema’s. Her Bolt Lance glinted, the air around her crackling with sparks. Occasionally, she sent out a gale of wind, pushing back the Ortans and letting her regain her bearings.

She would be fine.

Grunting, Phoenix shook himself back into the action, trying to push through the wave of enemy units that seemed intent on separating him from Trucy and Apollo. Apollo was a nimble archer, and could dart around and fight as well in close combat as any other infantryman.

Trucy, on the other hand, was the youngest person on the battlefield by a long shot, and easily the smallest person. If she wasn’t careful, Phoenix was distinctly aware of the possibility that she could get too close to the wrong end of a lance, or even trampled.

Gritting his teeth, Phoenix pushed back, catching a lance just below it’s blade. With a flick, Phoenix used the cavalier’s momentum against them, throwing them off their steed. He carved his way back to Trucy and Apollo, just in time for a Paladin to catch his eye.

It was one of von Karma’s apprentices, both his horse and his steed covered in ornate plating, in the Ortan colors of crimson and gold. Phoenix knew underneath the Paladin’s helmet that despite his head of silver hair, the rider was the same age. Of course, none of that really mattered when he saw the blade the man brandished. The surface was mottled and uneven, like the blacksmith who hammered it didn’t even bother to smooth it out. The edge was jagged, designed for shearing scales. It was a rare type of blade, but it was one Phoenix learned to fear like a parent would fear for their child.

It was a Wyrmslayer, designed specifically to kill someone with dragon’s blood.

Phoenix was never a huge believer in the gods, but in that moment, it sure felt like one gave him their blessing. Something like a roar tore from his throat, his sword becoming an arc of destruction as he desperately tried to make his way back to Trucy and Apollo. He vaulted over a cavalier, the horse rearing in protest, as he met the blade of the charging Paladin.

The rider’s eyes widened in surprise, not that Phoenix could blame him. Most people wouldn’t consider trying to intercept a charging horse a very sound strategy.

Pushing off the ground, Phoenix forced the Wyrmslayer back. Over the din of clanging metal and incantations, Phoenix was keenly aware of Apollo getting the message, trying to usher Trucy away from von Karma’s pupil. They would be fine against lesser cavaliers, but his biggest priority was keeping the Paladin occupied.

Even if it meant dredging up more bittersweet memories that were nearly a couple decades old.

Well, keeping him occupied was the plan. Specifically, keeping him occupied in a fight, not a weird staring contest. Even if it let Phoenix catch his breath.

_“HOLD!”_ A voice bellowed, clear from the other side of the battlefield. Almost at once, every single Ortan soldier stopped their assault, backing away from their adversaries. The Paladin Phoenix was facing flinched as soon as the voice sounded, backing away as well.

The fighting at a standstill, Apollo’s forces regrouped. Ema looked a little worse for wear, but she and Lana’s pegasus would be fine. Clay was nursing a wound to the gut; normally a serious thing, but with Pearl healing it, it wouldn’t be anything fatal. Kay, who normally looked untouched after a battle, sustained a limp, supported by Maya, while Klavier brought up the back.

Manfred von Karma strutted forward on his horse, not bothering to wear a helmet like the arrogant bastard he was (and _oh gods_ did Phoenix wish he did, it was not a face someone wanted to be able to see clearly). That other pupil of his swooped down on her pegasus to join him. Judging from the nicks in her armor and singed cloth, she probably had a few close encounters with Ema’s Bolt Lance.

“Phoenix Wright,” von Karma had the nerve to sound . . . _delighted_ , as if this wasn’t a battlefield, but a banquet. “The man who murdered his own commander, the man who started the biggest war in our continent’s history. An honor, really.”

“I'm afraid I can't say the same,” Phoenix returned, his eyes darting back and forth between the kids trying to regroup and the seemingly endless waves of cavaliers they were up against.

Von Karma only _hmphed_ , wrinkling his nose in disgust. “At least I don't have children fight in my stead.”

_Oh please,_ Phoenix fought the urge to say. _You never stepped out into the front lines even once._

Instead he said, “At least I didn't order for an entire village of innocents to be razed to the ground.”

“Ah yes, _that_ little matter. It’s already been two years, hasn’t it?” Von Karma shifted, turning to address the Feys. “How does the fair Master of Kurain fare on this fine day?”

“I'm faring better than one of your platoons,” Maya replied. Mia's lance was still strapped to her back, and she was learning to make use of it, but anyone who knew of Kurain Village knew of the magical prowess the Feys possessed. As she slipped Misty Fey’s tome from her satchel, Phoenix noted with satisfaction the cavaliers closest to her shifted nervously.

Even the Paladin carrying the Wyrmslayer didn't seem too keen on being within the vicinity of her.

“Phoenix Wright,” von Karma sneered. “You and these . . . _children_ have fought well to survive so far, but even _you_ can see how staggering these odds are.” Von Karma brandished his lance, and as much as it gleamed  cleanly in the sun, it wasn’t hard for Phoenix to imagine that lance gleaming with something else. “No further harm will come to the children. My forces will back down, a full retreat.” He swung his lance, aligning the tip with Phoenix’s nose. “So long as you surrender yourself, of course.”

He dropped his sword immediately, even to his own surprise. “I agree to those terms.”

“ _What?_ ” Apollo yelped, raising his bow, an arrow in his free hand. “ _Phoenix_  you can’t!”

Yes, yes he could. He could, especially if that meant they could live to fight on another day. Especially when it was clear he was the most expendable person in the group.

Phoenix only smiled, allowing one last glimpse of the kids he'd grown so fond of. He knew some a little longer than others, but in the end, it would be Apollo leading them to victory.

“Don't worry about me.” Eye contact was a mistake. For a second, he could feel his resolve waver as Trucy clung to Apollo, burying her face into the crook of his arm, weeping loud enough for everyone to hear. And Apollo, Phoenix knew, could push everyone onward. He was strong enough to pull his own weight, and everyone else's if it was demanded of him. “Apollo?”

“Y—Yes?”

Gods, it killed him to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes too. Phoenix took a breath, steeling his resolve once more. He gave Apollo a radiant smile, one last display of strength in the worst of times. “You'll be fine.”

One of the cavaliers dismounted, scooping up Phoenix’s dropped blade like a vulture swooping for a carcass. The Paladin that was wielding the Wyrmslayer finally sheathed the damned blade, beckoning for the cavalier. Shuffling like a mouse, the subordinate complied, and if it were quiet enough, Phoenix was sure he could hear the poor cavalier squeak.

The Paladin studied the blade the way an elder would study a lost trinket, scrutinizing lost memories rather than thinking about how nice it would look as victory spoils mounted on a wall.

Or maybe that was Phoenix’s wishful thinking at work.

A couple more cavaliers brought up the back, cutting him off from the group. One nudged him forward with the butt of their lance, and as he stumbled forward, he couldn’t help but feel dwarfed by the Ortans on their mounts.

Phoenix winced as one of the cavaliers slammed the butt of their lance into his back. As he stumbled forward, he snarled at von Karma and his pegasus knight apprentice as they left the battlefield. The paladin’s hesitance showed only in the way he stiffened as Phoenix was struck by an Ortan subordinate, the way delicate way he sheathed Phoenix’s sword, attaching it to his belt. But, he still followed his commander.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood as the cavalier that hit him issued a single order. “March.”

* * *

 As a prisoner of war, the only kind of special treatment Phoenix expected was the individual attention that came with interrogations and torture. He couldn't be sure how many others there could be; the war only recently broke out, but Phoenix wasn't so ignorant to believe everything was sunshine and rainbows, even for Helianthus.

It was a pleasant surprise when he was brought to an empty cell. There was thin, wiry mat on the ground too. Nice.

Then it occurred to him that the nice cell (as far as dungeons went) was probably courtesy of _that man_. Well, that ruined the mood. Besides being in a dungeon.

The bars swung closed, the metal shrieking as the bottom scraped the stone floor. Phoenix winced; it was far worse than Trucy’s screeching, even when she went full dragon. Sighing, he practically collapsed onto the mat, wincing as his butt slammed into the stone floor, his back popping in three separate places.

He really was getting too old for this. Still, maybe he could finally catch up on some sleep while he was here. Those long months of volunteering for first watch and getting woken up by brigands or soldiers were starting to take a toll. On top of the the fate of two kingdoms and keeping a certain commander from getting his grubby hands on two kids with dragon blood, of course. With a huff, his eyes slipped close.

“It’s you.”

Damn. It couldn’t have possibly have been even a few minutes. Hesitantly, he wrenched one of his eyes back open. If he were younger, he would’ve gasped, flinched in shock, and hit his head on the stone wall behind him. Instead, he huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Of course. Who else could the prisoner of war be? I’ve been under surveillance since my capture.” If he really wanted to, Phoenix probably put more effort into not sounding like a monotone school teacher. But he didn’t want to, so he didn’t.

“No, I mean,” the man on the other side of the bars paused, like he actually wanted to put thought into what he wanted to say. “It’s _you_.”

This time, Phoenix did lift his head, both eyes cracking open. Whatever biting comment he had was swallowed back by equal parts denial and disbelief. For gods’ sake, he had to remind himself to shut his mouth!

“Long time, no see,” Phoenix managed to keep his tone dry, though he wasn’t about to acknowledge the twinge of relief he felt when he figured out who his visitor was.

“Yes,” the man said softly. “It has been.”

Aside from the fancier clothing, the man’s face was still recognizable from the child Phoenix was friends with so many years ago. He still wore his hair in the same damn style, except that it gleamed in a way it hadn’t when he was nine.

_Which was what? Almost twenty years ago?_ Phoenix had to shake himself out that line of thought. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

The silence they lapsed into was awkward at best. In Phoenix’s humble opinion, the silence portrayed the fact that if it were any other person, he probably wouldn’t have stopped at keeping the Wyrmslayer away from his little girl.

With each passing moment, Phoenix could feel himself slipping behind walls, crawling back behind the man those two years shaped him to be. It was an unconscious reflex really, but he could feel his shoulders fall into a slight hunch, his lips upturning into a smirk. He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head the way someone would if they were pretending to listen.

“Why are you even here?” Phoenix was genuinely curious, although there was a big part of him that never wanted to see this particular face again.

“I just—I just needed to be sure.”

Phoenix only scoffed, narrowing his eyes at his visitor in a withering glare. The man flinched, like Phoenix had struck him. “Why are you here?” Phoenix repeated. “I'm sure an _Ortan_ noble like yourself has better things to do than attend to a _Helianthite_ war prisoner.” He was breathing hard, and forced himself to back down, to slip back against that wall. “But I'm sure you're aware of that.” Phoenix scrutinized his guest, noticing that he'd actually stepped back from the bars when he heard the venom in his voice. Well, he certainly wasn't a little boy, that was for sure. “Have you come to laugh at the fallen soldier?”

Those were big words, especially when they came from someone who was branded as a war criminal across the continent, but they did their job. Each barb, each syllable was like a poisoned arrow; his mind was screaming for Phoenix to _get this man away from him_ no matter how much it hurt himself in the process.

“You know me.”

“No,” Phoenix said, looking away. “I knew you.”

The man on the other side of the bars stepped back, recoiling as if Phoenix whipped him. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, clamping his mouth shut when Phoenix narrowed his eyes, mouth tight in a sharp line.

As soon as the man’s footfalls were gone, Phoenix slumped, sliding down along the floor so he could pass for someone trying to sleep. How _could_ he, when he just practically just abandoned those kids, abandoned _his daughter?_ He choked, letting out a gasp for air, feeling trails of wetness down his cheeks. He clamped his mouth down on his forearm, only to muffle his cries for the guards that would patrol the dungeons.

His shoulders shook and _oh gods_ did he hate that feeling. Phoenix wanted to curse at himself for slipping into _that_ again. When it was just him and Trucy, it was so _easy_ to slip into someone who could toss out a barbed insult like rocks, but Trucy could always bring him out of it.

_Sticks and stones._ Phoenix’s gut clenched the thought of that man, of enduring the past two years at hardly being able to walk through a major city without being hunted. And _finally_ , as their little family grew bigger with Apollo, Clay and Klavier rounding out their ranks, Phoenix could finally feel like the part of himself that was chipped away by wanted posters, by Kristoph Gavin’s vicious rumors that he of all people had killed Mia Fey, by shouldering the blame for tearing a continent in half was slowly being rebuilt.

He never once thought the the boy from his childhood would come back to haunt him. Not like this.

Those thoughts never left him, especially when he closed his eyes, drying the last of his tears.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night.

* * *

Routine forced Phoenix to open his eyes at dawn’s first light, regardless of how much sleep he had the night before. Of course, sitting in a cell, that left little to do for entertainment, aside from being alone with his thoughts. Again. This time, they shifted to someone else entirely.

Briefly, he wondered if that man would visit him again. The rational part of him doubted it; surely a _noble_ had better things to do than waste time with a war prisoner. The small, nostalgic part of him remembered better days before war became a tangible reality. He remembered a small village, a boy with silver hair who could make flames from nothing as easily as Phoenix learned movements with a blade.

The silver-haired boy lived with his father, a kind man who fought for what was just, without fail. How did _he_ end up under the thumb as someone as vile as von Karma?

Perhaps Phoenix would find out today. Or perhaps it didn’t matter anymore.

A guard brought him breakfast: a small loaf of stale, hard bread, and a cup of water. If Phoenix had to guess, the guard didn't expect Phoenix to be up at an ungodly hour. His eyes grew wider than saucers, and clumsily shoved the crappy breakfast food through the bars. Phoenix winced as he heard some of the water sloshing in the cup, but couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the guard scurry away as soon as he was done. The bread felt like chewing a brick, but the water didn't taste like piss, surprisingly. Although, he wasn't quite sure those were fair dungeon standards, considering this was the first time he spent time in a dungeon behind bars.

Chewing the bread was one hell of a work out on his jaw, and trying to swallow it took out all the spit in his throat. He was fortunate that the cell he was in had a barred window, so at least he could squint at the sun. It hadn’t even cleared the horizon yet, and it was still plenty dark. He wondered whether Apollo had everyone else moving on, or was planning something far more stupid: a rescue op, especially when everyone just came out of a full frontal _assault_. He had to remind himself that Apollo was a newbie, as far as being a commander went, but he wasn’t _stupid_.

Besides, it wasn’t like he would be worth that effort anyways.

His afternoon meal graced him with another visitor, though it wasn’t the man he was hoping for—not that he was hoping for that man.

“Von Karma,” Phoenix drawled. “How kind of you to visit poor ol’ me. I was kinda getting lonely in here.”

Von Karma sneered. “Perhaps you’ll find better company in Helianthus.”

Phoenix’s mouth went dry at the mention of his homeland, and he could feel his body go rigid. _“Gavin—”_

“Kristoph Gavin contacted me,” von Karma smiled, like a shark baring teeth. He stared down his nose at Phoenix, and he couldn’t help but fidget, pressing his back into the wall. He got the distinct feeling that the only time von Karma stared at something with his beady little eyes was when he was staring at his dinner. “Perhaps returning you to your kingdom to repay your crimes will end this war before you drown in the blood of the innocent deaths you caused.” The old husk held up a hand, snapping his fingers like an animal trainer silencing an annoying pet. “Commander Gavin himself was very interested in escorting you back to Helianthus. He will arrive within the fortnight.”

As von Karma spun on his heel to leave, Phoenix’s stomach began to churn, like the meager breakfast he was just provided wasn’t quite enough to prepare him for what he’d have to deal with for the next fourteen days.

_Dammit Apollo,_ Phoenix rubbed his jaw. _I’m sorry._

If Apollo had chosen to stick around, then given the fourteen day time limit, Phoenix didn’t doubt the guy could cobble together some covert op. Then, assuming the rescue was successful, they ran the risk of giving away their trail to Gavin (the asshole Gavin), and considering he was trying to keep the two kids with dragon blood _away_ from him, that was also a bad idea.

Phoenix took a deep breath. Sitting around in a tiny stone cell for fourteen days would do little to prepare him for having to deal with that slimy, conniving, backstabbing _bastard_ again, but if he would have to take the fall to keep Trucy and Apollo out of Gavin’s clutches, then so be it.

Lunch was a little more generous: lukewarm soup, a cold shred of bread, water. Gingerly, Phoenix took a sip of the soup; it tasted fresh, and was probably made within the day, possibly for the servants’ lunch. Still, it was lavish for a prisoner. A small part of him hoped _that man_ did him a small favor. The rational part told him not to think about it, and eat it anyways.

When he finished licking the bowl (like he was going to let even a bit of that kind of meal go to waste), he scanned the other side of the bars. The dungeon was standard, at least compared to what he had seen of those in Castle Helianthus. If anything, the one he was sitting in now felt a little bigger. Or maybe he was feeling a little smaller.

There wasn’t much to go on if he could stage an escape, if there was a ghost of a chance left now. Von Karma made it clear Phoenix would be under tight surveillance, especially given the chances that it would bring the biggest war the continent had seen to a bloodless end. That, and since von Karma had been the one to “capture” Phoenix (were they really going to ignore the fact that he gave himself up?), the name would rocket upwards in the world of Ortan nobility, assuming the smug bastard had anymore to climb.

That didn’t changed the fact that it was a standard dungeon: well maintained iron bars that were just narrow enough to keep Phoenix from trying to squeeze through, claustrophobic tunnels that held few forks, so it was a straightforward path that easily led to being dogpiled by guards, getting thrown back into an even smaller, more isolated cell, and Phoenix could bet that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to _not_ shackle him to the wall if he tried to pull off a stunt like that. Damn.

There wasn’t anything else to do besides nap and mope in between waiting for meals. Phoenix scoffed, pissing von Karma off sounded like better entertainment than counting the number of bricks that made up his cell.

Groaning, Phoenix got to his feet, and began to pace. It was only the first full day and he was already getting restless. His mind kept bouncing from fruitless ideas to escape, to food, to that man, to the well-being of the kids, to the many ways he was going to make Kristoph Gavin suffer if he ever got his hands on him.

And so the gods heard his pleas for entertainment, and Phoenix remembered that there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.

The man was back, looking as prim and proper and _stiff_ as ever in his fine tailored clothes. His trousers were tucked into his boots, and that red waistcoat did wonders for his waistline, even if that frilled monstrosity made Phoenix want to wince.

Wait, what?

Phoenix risked another look, stopping in his tracks. The man on the other side of the bars looked . . . _nervous_ , shifting to look down from one side of the corridor to the other. Like he was afraid of being caught.

The man cleared his throat, gesturing to a lump of frayed cloth he was hiding. Raising an eyebrow, Phoenix took it as the man slipped it through the bars, mouth watering when the smell hit him. It was bread, beef, and cheese. _By the gods . . ._

“Why . . .?” Phoenix swallowed. “Why would you do this?”

The man glanced down the corridor again before meeting his eyes, and Phoenix was taken aback by how hollow they looked. For someone who had miraculously climbed his way up from a village boy to an Ortan noble he seemed . . . haunted. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Phoenix scoffed. “You didn’t have to bring me all this. It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.” The man only hummed in response, watching as Phoenix settled back against the far wall. “Well? You don’t have to wait for me to get comfortable, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”

Phoenix hated how familiar something as small as his laugh sounded, even so many years later. “I wanted to ask you something about that girl on the battlefield.”

He froze in the middle of chewing, the thrum of fear spreading through his body like poison. “Hm,” he shrugged noncommittally. “I’m not really obligated to answer, am I?”

“No,” the man conceded. “But it would help me regain some lost sleep.”

“Ask away.” Phoenix regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Hold old is she?” The man’s voice seemed to trail off, like he was afraid of the answer.

“Ideally, not old enough to be on the battlefield.” Phoenix levelled a charged glare at the noble. “But this isn’t a perfect world.”

That seemed to ruffle the man on the other side of the bars, making him look at the ground, hiding behind his silvery bangs. He gripped the crook of his elbow with his hand, and suddenly Phoenix was struck by how much this man looked like a child. 

“I know,” he replied quietly. “I know that too well.” He straightened himself, glancing furtively up and down the corridor. “I didn't think much of it, really. Von Karma gave me a sword to use for this battle instead of my usual blade. He ordered me to use it on the one wearing a blue cloak.”

Phoenix frowned, clenching the empty cloth in his fist. “A blue cloak? That's oddly specific.”

The noble shook his head. “Orders are orders. I didn't ask why or how he knew. Nor was I going to ask why he handed me a blade meant for dragon blood.”

Inwardly, Phoenix cursed. Had _this man_ , of all people put the pieces together? The only other man he could think of privy to such information was Kristoph Gavin, and now Phoenix guessed that he relayed that information to von Karma before Phoenix and Apollo planned the assault.

The blue cloak was her mother's. Of course Trucy would never take it off.

“I didn't expect my target to be someone so young,” the noble confessed.

“She can take care of herself,” Phoenix returned. “I just didn't expect a Wyrmslayer on the battlefield.” He allowed his lips to turn up into a smirk, and gestured to the stone walls and iron bars. “There's just some things you can't really prepare for.”

The noble looked at him oddly, like he caught the moment Phoenix’s walls went up. “I have one more question for you tonight.”

“Just one?”

“Who is she?” The noble caught himself. “I mean, who is she to you?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow, though he looked away. “She's my daughter.”

He couldn't recall a time he saw a noble more gobsmacked. The noble actually stepped back, like the statement actually hurt. “Y—your _daughter?_ ”

Phoenix chuckled. “Yep. I guess you could say they're all my kids.”

“You mean the ones on the battlefield.”

“Every single one.”

“I see.”

The noble waited another moment, just to see if Phoenix would say anything more. He didn’t, and kept his eyes trained on the ground.

“I hear the servants are making stew for dinner,” the noble said finally. “I’ll see if I can procure some for you.”

Phoenix hated how easy it was to slip behind those walls, curtained with a smirk, armed with a barbed quip on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of comfort when he did. It was a reflex, like every other rhythm on the battlefield. Life just handed him a different kind of battle.

But what Phoenix hated even more was how easy the banter came to him, it was like clockwork, especially when it came to that man.

As soon as the noble turned to leave, Phoenix cursed himself. It was still just banter, but how many details would reach the ears of von Karma? He wasn't sure he trusted the noble that seemed so intent on keeping a conversation, even if he promised to bring fresh stew. The only thing he _did_ know was that he sure as hell couldn't trust von Karma; not only was he in contact with Kristoph Gavin, Phoenix knew that if he wasn't, then von Karma would have no qualms with executing Phoenix as soon as he surrendered himself.

In fact, the whole situation just reeked of uncertainty. The only thing Phoenix was absolutely sure about was that both von Karma and Kristoph Gavin wanted him dead. He could only hope Apollo could get everyone else to safety, though there was a selfish part of him that hoped the kid could put together a rescue to get him out.

_Shut up_ , Phoenix chided himself. Always had to remind himself that he wasn’t worth the effort.

Still, he couldn’t complain about stew, unless it was poisoned. He wasn’t sure about that either.

He would’ve moped a bit more, but any longer Phoenix was sure the ghost of Mia Fey would’ve smacked some sense into him, or smacked him into oblivion. He scoffed at that; like he wasn’t a permanent black mark on her legacy already. Maybe getting smacked into oblivion was preferred.

“Phoenix?”

He blinked, squinting at the setting sunlight filtering through the window in the cell across from him. The figure across from him didn’t look dead at all, despite dying two years ago. Her armor gleamed, a quiver of arrows and a bow slung over her shoulders.

“Oh gods,” Phoenix muttered. “That’s it. I’ve lost it.” He blinked at the figure again, frowning. “You never wear your hair down.”

The ghost of Mia Fey smiled, though her eyes were sad. “Not during times of war, and we were always on the verge.” She tucked a loose lock behind an ear, twisting it with her fingers like she was unused to the weight of her hair hanging freely. “But I suppose my time for fighting passed two years ago.”

“Right.” Phoenix swallowed. _Gods_ , there was so much he wanted to say her (her ghost? Or was he just hallucinating?), but none of the words could quite fit, and they were left stuck in his throat. He turned to the side as a new bout of tears spilled over, unable to bear looking at the mentor—at the _friend_ —he must’ve disappointed a thousand times over.

“Phoenix?” Out of reflex, he turned back to address the voice of his former commanding officer. Even two years couldn’t shake that habit ingrained in him. Or maybe it couldn’t shake that amount of respect. He blinked tears out of his eyes as he stifled sobs, covering his mouth.

“I'm sorry,” Phoenix muttered, fully aware that it was more than possible he was speaking to the air. Maybe he just finally snapped under the weight of his thoughts and misplaced guilt. Maybe he just ran out of energy to keep ducking _that man’s_ constant prodding.

Mia simply tilted her head, looking as thoughtful as she did when she gave advice or planned an attack. “Whatever for?”

Phoenix let out a shaky laugh, gesturing to himself. “All of this, I suppose.” He wiped his eyes. “I feel like I let you down, over and over. I feel like I’ve let Apollo and Trucy down. I’m not the kind of person that should be guiding them. I’m not the commander that you were.”

“Hm.” Well, that wasn’t the encouragement he was hoping for, even if he knew he didn’t really deserve any. “Those rumors that did your reputation in weren’t your fault.” Mia’s voice was sharp, like the blade of her lance. “You _know_ whose fault that was. And you couldn’t have possibly predicted Gavin conspiring with Ortus.” Mia smiled. “So you’re not the commander I was—so what?”

“What?”

“So what?” Mia repeated, a grin lighting up her face. “Command is a difficult position, and you have a group of unique fighters. And I think you’ve passed off the torch quite nicely.”

“I kind of forced Apollo into that role, don’t you think?”

“He’s seen the realities of war, and Kristoph Gavin’s true colors.” Mia grimaced, like his name left a bad taste in her mouth. “Phoenix, what’s the most effective way to win a fight?”

“Stop the fight before it can begin,” The reply was automatic, her philosophy etched into his mind like any other drill.

Mia nodded. “You have a chance to take things a step further, Phoenix. Turn an enemy into a friend, extend your hand before you raise it.”

_Oh no._ He knew what she was getting at, and opened his mouth to respond. His former commander raised a hand, and Phoenix shut his mouth immediately.

“Of course,” she continued. “It’s just a thought. A philosophy, really.”

“But you believed in it?”

Mia absently twirled an arrow with deft fingers, nodding. “I did. Until the end.”

Phoenix’s mouth went dry, the last of Mia’s words ringing in his ears as she faded away. Another blink, and there wasn’t any trace of her. The place where she was standing was replaced by a ruffled noble with a steaming bowl of stew.

Had that much time really passed?

The noble didn't say a word, slipping the tiny bowl through the bars, along with another chunk of bread wrapped in cloth. He set them on the ground instead of holding them out expectantly like before. Somehow, Phoenix found the strength to push himself off the ground, shuffling over to scoop up the proffered food.

“You know,” Phoenix started. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Miles— _the noble_ —sat down on the stone floor. Phoenix couldn’t bring himself to press back against the far wall, sitting across from the noble.

The noble simply chuckled, though even Phoenix had to admit it sounded a bit forced. “I did say I'd try. You did look rather . . . erm—”

“Starving?” Phoenix scoffed, ripping up the bread. “It happens when you can't show your face around civilization anymore.”

“And I suppose when you _do_ get food, it goes to the children.”

Phoenix nodded, dipping a piece of bread into the stew. He paused, taking the time to swallow the bread and lick the stew dripping off of his fingers. “You’re still here.”

“You look like you could use company.” The noble didn’t look away, but Phoenix didn’t miss the way a hand grasped the crook of his elbow, the way he tilted his head down like before. “And I wanted to ask you about something else.”

Phoenix shrugged. “Same rules as before. You can ask, but I don’t have to answer. Besides, I thought the questions from before were the last of them.”

“Right.” Phoenix flinched, and then realized that the noble didn’t actually say his name. “I figured as such.” There was another beat, another hesitation, and Phoenix could feel his stomach flip-flop. All of a sudden his meal didn't feel quite as appetizing as before. “What happened?”

Phoenix set the bowl down with an audible _clack_. “You're gonna have to be more specific.”

No. He really didn't.

“Two years ago. Kurain Village.”

It seemed even the noble had trouble getting his words out.

But there it was. Phoenix did his best to lean back on his elbows and stare at the dank ceiling. He managed to heave a pretty convincing sigh. “Does it really matter what happened? Both sides needed a scapegoat.” Phoenix gestured to himself. “Here I am.”

“That’s not an answer,” the noble insisted. “It does matter, because you’ve been branded as a terrorist for the past two years.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Phoenix insisted. There was an edge to his voice, tension pulling his shoulders together. He sat back up stiffly. “Is that the only question you’re going to ask?”

“Yes.” The noble had a hand extended, as if he was trying to reach out and touch Phoenix through the iron bars. “I didn't have to bring you food.”

But his voice was too soft for that to be a threat. Even if Phoenix wanted to hate him, he couldn't. Not when it came to free food that didn't taste like grass.

Especially not when it came to Miles Edgeworth.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Phoenix snapped, regretting it immediately.

Edgeworth was scrutinizing him, that much was clear. Phoenix did his best not to shift or fidget under the noble’s razor sharp gaze, though his stomach churned. And one thing Phoenix didn’t want to do was heave good stew.

Compromising his pride, even after nearly twenty years, was a very close second.

“I see that this conversation is over,” the noble said finally. He brushed imaginary dirt off of his trousers as he rose, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

Phoenix closed his eyes, turning around to face the wall as he listened to Edgeworth’s fading footfalls. This time around, he was out of tears to shed, the only thing to keep him company was the echo of Mia’s words.

* * *

There was a crick in his back and a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there during his first few nights in the dungeon. Phoenix rolled his shoulders, wincing. He felt well rested in the sense that he could open his eyes without wanting to close them immediately, and there wasn’t a yawn escaping every time he opened his mouth.

Too bad there was still that lingering sense of exhaustion he couldn’t shake for two years. It was a heavy feeling, always nagging at the back of his mind, always keeping him on his toes as he watched the kids haggle enough food to get by, watching from the outskirts and the edge of forests.

This was different.

There wasn’t a wanted poster he had to watch for, the glint of a soldier’s armor. Despite his situation, Phoenix _knew_ he should’ve been marginally able to relax. There was no point in stressing out over what would happen to him, not when it could give Apollo a chance to escape. And yet, Apollo, Trucy and the others weren’t the ones that were always on his mind.

He was being disgustingly selfish, that much was painfully obvious to him.

There was a part of Phoenix bigger than he liked to admit, hoping the noble would come visit him again. It wouldn’t be a very fruitful wish, considering how easily it was to hide behind being an asshole every time the noble came down, but Phoenix wished for his company. Even if it didn’t come with a steaming bowl of stew.

Even if he had to deal with a man that would march under an opposing banner, that held a sword that was meant to slay his daughter.

It was easier to think that the Miles Edgeworth he knew died all those years ago in a mysterious fire. But despite everything, the naive, hopeful part of Phoenix that withered and wilted in the course of two years screamed at him to take another good look, and for reasons other than Mia’s words.

Phoenix groaned, digging the heels of his palm into his eyes. He wasn’t one for believing in gods, but it sure felt like every single one of them loved watching him suffer.

There was still that nervous energy building up in his veins, making his hands shake and run furiously through his hair. As he reminded himself to take calming breaths, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Mia’s told him that energy could’ve put to better use.

He found himself doing sets of push ups, sit ups—a far cry from his training days, but just enough to keep his mind occupied. Perhaps he wasn't really a soldier anymore, but that wasn't an excuse to get complacent.

When his muscles were sore enough for his mind to complain instead of panic, he sat down, massaging his arms. His stomach was growling, but considering last night's fare and his situation, he could hardly complain. He skipped a meal before for the kid's sake. What was one more?

Phoenix had woken up a little later than usual today. The sun had already cleared the horizon, and by the time he finished exercising, it looked like lunch would be in a few measly hours.

Well, if they were feeling generous.

Phoenix stiffened as he heard another set of footsteps echoing down the corridor. He knew what Edgeworth's footfalls sounded like by now, and he couldn't imagine von Karma coming back without a reason. The guards that patrolled the corridor didn't pace when there was only one prisoner.

Well, it turned out he was only a little wrong about the von Karma part.

A young woman—the pegasus knight, Phoenix remembered, but more importantly, von Karma’s _daughter_ —strode into view. She didn't wear heels, but her metal-plated leather boots still clacked decisively on the ground. She couldn't have been older than Ema or Maya, but she held herself with a regal air that she undoubtedly picked up from her father.

Everything about the young woman was all sharp edges, her stare was scrutinizing, clinical. Phoenix vaguely felt like he was being dissected, every possible weakness of his analyzed in a single glance.

He had to give props to Ema for keeping the young woman at bay, as well as an entire squad of her pegasus knights.

“Phoenix Wright.”

Phoenix did his best not to cringe or flinch when she spoke his name. She was certainly not her father, but was still clearly a force of nature of her own. Sure, a wanted poster or any other common guard might get an eyeroll out of him at the most these days, but Franziska von Karma was absolutely _terrifying_.

“Yes,” Phoenix answered. He had to give himself props for not letting his voice crack. “That’s me.”

“Hmph,” von Karma wrinkled her nose. “For a man hunted to the ends of the earth, I thought you'd be more—”

“Intimidating?” Phoenix offered, allowing the corner of his mouth to curl up into a smirk.

“Impressive,” she deadpanned. “You don't look at all cunning nor fierce. You look . . .” She tilted her head, searching for a word. “ _Foolish._ ”

“Don't lay the complements on me all at once,” Phoenix crossed his arms, stretching out his legs. Something popped. Great. “What else could you expect from an old man?”

“Perfection.”

Phoenix blinked. The response was immediate, without any inflection like it was a trained behavior rather than a thoughtful answer. The more he thought about why, the bigger the pit in his stomach grew, something like dread clawing at him.

“Why are you here?” Phoenix asked. He knew he wasn't pressing his gut feeling, not that he was sure that he should. Somehow he got the idea that he might not like the answer.

“I learned that my brother had been making trips.” she crossed her arms, gripping her sleeve. Oddly, it reminded Phoenix of Edgeworth, though his stance struck Phoenix as childlike. Franziska von Karma’s reminded him of a warden. How fitting. “I have a few questions of my own.”

“Same rules apply. I'm not obligated to answer them.”

Von Karma simply raised an eyebrow. “I thought as much. You can rest assured that my questions will not be as numerous nor as persistent. None of the information you have divulged has, or will ever, reach the ears of any Ortan commander. Least of all my father.”

Phoenix had to remind himself to shut his mouth, swallowing. “I appreciate that.”

“You have no reason to believe me.”

“It's a fair assumption, don't you think?”

Still, he had to wonder why Manfred von Karma’s _daughter_ of all people seemed intent on getting information out of him willingly, especially if she wouldn’t pass any of it on to her father either. In the context of an enemy interrogating him, it made no sense.

Of course, that was assuming she was telling the truth.

“It is,” von Karma conceded.

“I see,” Phoenix said. There was a specific question he wanted to ask. His head screamed that it was a terrible idea. His gut disagreed. “How are the others? The kids in my group?”

Well, damn it all.

The long pause wasn’t all that reassuring either.

“I don’t know where they are,” von Karma said finally. “But I’m almost certain that my father doesn’t have a clue as to their whereabouts either.”

“Good,” Phoenix said, allowing the tiniest bit of tension to leave his shoulders. “That’s good. That’s all I could ask for.”

“Phoenix Wright.”

“Do you have something against just using a single name or what?”

Von Karma scoffed. “Irrelevant. Have you noticed anything unusual about your . . . imprisonment?”

“I mean, it’s a little too lengthy for my taste, but I have a feeling that’s not what you were referring to.”

Phoenix was certain von Karma was tempted to roll her eyes, and she probably would’ve if she weren’t so refined a noble.

“The guards.” Von Karma’s fists tightened in her leather gloves so harshly, Phoenix could hear them creak. “Where are they?”

“I wouldn’t know. Except for when your lovely father graced me with his presence.” Then the realization washed over him like a cold bath. “I suppose you have the answer.”

“Simple. My brother, as well as myself have ordered them out. They’re out of earshot. After all, it wouldn’t do for two of the highest ranking nobles to be interrupted for any reason during the interrogation of a notorious prisoner.”

And there it was, not that Phoenix’s mouth could form a proper response. Deep down, perhaps he always had a feeling. One of the few times he listened to his head, and it took a stern but nostalgic lecture from Mia Fey’s ghost and Franziska von Karma spelling it out for Phoenix for everything to really sink in.

Naturally, von Karma interpreted his silence for _still not getting it._

“By the gods, you _fool_ ,” von Karma groaned. “He’s been _covering_ for you, and so have I.”

“I know.” Phoenix didn’t have the energy to snap. The wave of relief he felt was draining. After spending those nights keeping his walls up and his one ally at arm’s length, he couldn’t muster the strength to feel joy. To entertain the reality that he had not one but _two_ allies on his side was almost too surreal. “So what now?”

“Excuse me?”

“What now?” Phoenix repeated. “You’ve made it clear that you’re not on your father’s side. So what happens now?”

“My brother wants to speak with you again,” Franziska scoffed. “Although I’m not sure how productive such a meeting will be if you refuse to answer his questions again.”

Phoenix wanted to hate how easy his answer left his mouth. “I won’t.”

“I see.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, especially for a von Karma. “He’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

For once, rest in this damned dungeon was a peaceful one, and he woke up feeling light, like he was with Trucy and the others again.

By now, he learned to ignore the popping down his back as he stretched, yawning loud enough to wake the rest of the castle.

“Well, isn’t that just obnoxious.”

The voice was clipped, with the posh sort of accent that came from nobility. Phoenix turned to see Miles Edgeworth, looking as dapper as all the previous times he came for a visit. He didn’t ignore the tray of food sitting in front of him either.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Phoenix asked.

“Not long,” Edgeworth assured him. “I brought you breakfast.”

“I can see that.” Phoenix slapped himself internally for his bluntness, even though it was a reflex. “Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure,” Edgeworth replied readily. “We can talk while you eat.”

Phoenix hummed, immediately tearing off a chunk of bread. Edgeworth took that as his cue to start asking questions.

“What happened?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Phoenix said. “A lot of things have happened lately.”

“I meant—I meant two years ago, in Kurain Village. I _know_ what the rumors say, but I want to hear it from you. Please.”

Phoenix paused, taking his sweet time to chew his bread. The only ones who knew the whole story—and _believed_ him—were with Apollo. Even then, it took a couple of them a little while to believe him, and the Feys had to corroborate his story.

It was worth a shot.

“My commanding officer took in two people fleeing Ortus and brought them into Kurain Village so they could hide. She told me to prepare the rest of our platoon for battle, and gave us her blessing to enter.”

Edgeworth blinked. “Mia Fey asked you to rally the platoon. But you never made it there in time.”

“No,” Phoenix corrected. “ _I_ made it in time. Myself and the rest of our troops were ambushed by Ortans, so our third-in-command, Kristoph Gavin, insisted I make it to the village in case.” He laughed, heavy and bitter. “Funny how that turned out.”

“Please,” Edgeworth’s voice took on a shaky note, and his face was ashen, almost matching the gray stones of the dungeon. “Please continue.”

Phoenix put his bread down, levelling Edgeworth a look. He took a deep breath, steeling himself from the onslaught of images that he would relive once again.

“I couldn’t get there early enough.” Those words never came out easy, not to Phoenix who swore to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. “By the time I got there, the Ortan troops had arrived, and Mia Fey was already dead. The man who killed her, the enemy commander, was still there. So I avenged my commanding officer.”

Edgeworth swallowed. “So that’s the truth.”

“Yes.” Phoenix allowed himself to smile. It disappeared as tentatively as it formed. “And it was Kristoph Gavin that dragged my reputation to hell. Started all those rumors.”

“ _Gavin?_ ” It was Edgeworth’s voice that betrayed his disbelief, not his face. If Phoenix had to guess, it was years of being under the iron grip of Manfred von Karma, and whatever his hellish teachings were. “As in the man who’s coming to ah, collect you?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Edgeworth paused. “Do you have a question for me?”

“I do actually.” _I’ve only been thinking about it every damn day for nearly twenty years._ “What happened to you? Why’d you leave our village?”

Edgeworth laughed, carrying no mirth. An empty sound. “My father died.”

“Well, there must be more to it than that.” Phoenix bit off a chunk of sausage. “Sure, everyone knew your father took you on trips to another village every now and then, but . . .” Phoenix swallowed. “You just didn’t come back.”

“There was another village my father took me to. Fairly secluded. It reminded me of Kurain, actually. My father was visiting a friend of his, but then there was an accident. A terrible fire broke out.”

“There were rumors,” Phoenix said. “Seems to be a recurring theme.”

“Yes,” Edgeworth replied, keeping his eyes trained on the ground in front of him. “Rumors that the fire was a magical one. Quite believable, actually. One doesn’t need to know Arcfire to set a forest ablaze, you know.” Edgeworth let out another empty laugh. “And still to this day, no one knew who caused it. It was von Karma that found me and took me in when I couldn’t find my father’s body in the ashes.”

“No one knows who started the fire?” Phoenix asked. “You were there, weren’t you?”

“I was a child Phoe—Wright. But there’s this nightmare I have every now and again.”

Phoenix could relate.

“Sometimes,” Edgeworth continued, taking a steadying breath. “I dream that _I_ started the fire.”

Phoenix swore under his breath. Even at a young age, Phoenix could remember a young silver-haired boy able to conjure a flame with a snap of his fingers. A trick that took Gregory Edgeworth near a decade to figure out, never mind refining it.

“Well, no one knows for sure.” Phoenix repeated.

Edgeworth shook his head. “There are no witnesses. There are never any witnesses.”

“What? What the hell does that—” Phoenix cut himself off as he remembered that fateful day, two years ago. “By the gods, Edgeworth, _Kurain_ —”

Edgeworth flinched, but his mouth continued to move, like his body was forcing the out the truth his mind wanted to keep sealed away. “Redd White was the commander that razed the village to the ground. He’s the one you killed. Von Karma sent me to later to ah, silence any witnesses. Another one of his tests, I suppose.”

_Sure, like how he made sure you were wielding a Dragonslayer to take care of a little girl._

“You only ran into two survivors,” Phoenix finished. “Maya and Pearl Fey.”

“I couldn’t do it.” Edgeworth scoffed. “Although I suppose that’s obvious, given the fact that both of them were on the battlefield not too long ago.”

“That is sort of a dead giveaway,” Phoenix winced. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

The corners of Edgeworth’s lips twitched before twisting back into a deep frown. “I have another question for you.”

“Well, go ahead and shoot.”

“Why? Why did you change into—” Edgeworth waved his hand, gesturing up and down Phoenix. “This closed-off— _this_.”

Phoenix understood what he was getting at, not that it stopped him from letting out a loud obnoxious laugh. “It’s been nearly twenty years, Edgeworth. I’m not exactly a child anymore. I’m entitled to become as jaded as I am, given the circumstances.”

“Yes, but you’re still the same, don’t you see?”

“Excuse me?”

Edgeworth smiled. “You’re the same. When we were children you were always so reckless, putting everyone else’s needs before your own. You always wanted to defend the innocent, those who couldn’t help themselves. Who else would be foolish enough to try and intercept a charging horse? Face it Wright, you’ve always been the type of person to protect someone you loved, even at the risk of your own life. Despite what forged you into the man you are now, that hasn’t changed.”

Phoenix put his food down, his hands shaking. His appetite was still there in some respects. He could acknowledge that he was still hungry, but what was that compared to _this_? The revelation that someone he hadn’t seen in nearly two decades _still_ had an indescribable amount of faith in who he was as a person made his head spin.

“Wright, are you crying?”

“No.” Even though his voice came out high-pitched and squeaky. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes. “Yes.”

Edgeworth chuckled, but didn’t say another word.

“So what’s the plan now?” Phoenix asked.

“Simple,” Edgeworth tilted his head, shooting Phoenix a smirk. “Franziska and I will break you out. Tonight.”

Phoenix blanched, choking on his food. “I uh, that’s rather bold.”

“Are you saying that you’d rather be delivered to Gavin like a roasted pig on a spit?”

“What? No, that’s not—” Phoenix cleared his throat. “I appreciate the imagery.”

“I thought so.” Edgeworth crossed his arms, tapping a finger in thought. “No need to worry. We already have a plan.”

“Great,” Phoenix scoffed, but there wasn’t any real heat behind it. “My fate rests in your hands.”

“Just pray that it doesn’t go awry, Wright.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Phoenix sat back on his elbows. “You’ll jinx us before we begin.”

“I suppose you have experience with that,” Edgeworth mused. “Being a fugitive and all.”

“Hilarious.” Phoenix deadpanned, though he couldn't deny that he couldn't wait to get out. If not for his own sake, then for his daughter’s, and the brother she didn't know she had. “How are you going to smuggle me out? If von Karma—the old decrepit one—catches wind of this, both you and Franziska are gonna be raked over the coals.”

“Oh, we know.”

“You sound awfully blasé about it.”

“We're not planning on coming back.”

“Wait, what?”

Edgeworth chuckled, though that was belied by the harsh glare he was giving Phoenix. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

“I think so,” Phoenix said slowly. “Because it sounds to me like both you and Franziska are preparing to bust a known war criminal out of custody, which will significantly lower your standings among Ortan nobility, as well as your uh, _guardian_.” Phoenix scoffed. “I’m more worried about Franziska. Isn’t Manfred her father?”

“Wright.” Edgeworth dropped an arm, grasping the crook of his elbow again. “Franziska is fully aware of the consequences. However, both she and I have come to the conclusion that keeping you out of Gavin’s hands is in all of our best interest.” He regarded Phoenix with a tilt of his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. “There’s something not right with Ortus, with either kingdom.”

“I know.” Phoenix sat back up. “Mia would mention it from time to time, but I never took it seriously until well—” Phoenix shrugged. “Here we are.”

“I see.” Edgeworth gestured to the empty tray, taking it from Phoenix. “We’ll see each other later. Much later.”

“I hope so, Edgeworth.”

* * *

Phoenix only had to suffer through one more meal of dry gruel. Soon as the sun sank below the horizon, pulling a blanket of stars into the inky black sky, and Edgeworth appeared, unlocking the iron bars.

“How did you get past the guards?” Phoenix asked. “I doubt they’d just let you past without a solid reason. Especially in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Edgeworth said with a grin. “They’re ah, napping at the moment. It’s a long night. No one would notice if they shut their eyes for a while.”

Phoenix chuckled, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the moonlight. He could make out Edgeworth shifting in the dark and the rustle of metal against cloth. A blade hilt glinted in the moonlight. A very familiar blade.

It wasn’t as fancy as the rapiers some nobles would wield, nor did it hold as great a meaning to others who didn’t know him. To Phoenix, that blade was passed down from his grandfather. It was a sleek blade with only a single edge. It lacked a crossguard, instead it had a collar reaching around the entire braided handle. It was quite different from the blades widely used by Helianthites and Ortans, though perhaps some parts of it’s design could be traced back to Kurain Village.

He didn’t cry this time, though his hands shook as he gripped the scabbard, keenly aware of Edgeworth watching his fingers thread the scabbard to his belt. Phoenix sighed, feeling the comforting weight at his side once again.

“Ready?” Edgeworth asked.

Phoenix nodded, casting a furtive glance down the corridor. Couldn’t be too careful, he supposed. Especially when they were in the belly of the beast.

As Edgeworth led him through the maze of winding corridors and shadows that seemed to jump from the walls, there seemed to be a nagging feeling in the pit of Phoenix’s stomach. Sure, he knew they were in a castle, but why were Edgeworth and the von Karmas in a castle? The vast majority of nobles lived in manors, which were still impressive, but nowhere near as opulent as a castle.

“Edgeworth?”

“What is it?”

“Why are we in a castle? I know you’re a considered a noble now, and the von Karmas have a rather grand standing within Ortus, but I can’t figure out why we’re in a castle.”

“I’m not completely sure myself,” Edgeworth admitted. “Aside from the fact we received intelligence that you and your ragtag forces would be coming this way, and von Karma wanted to intercept you forces with his personally.”

“And shoved a Wyrmslayer into your hands.” Phoenix glanced over his shoulder. “I have a couple reasons of my own to think it all might be connected. Not that it really matters right now.”

“I know you’re just trying to keep them safe, Wright.” Phoenix tensed as Edgeworth gripped the hilt of his own sword. As Edgeworth drew the blade, Phoenix nearly pulled out his own, relaxing when Edgeworth drove the hilt into the temple of an incoming guard. “I have a few theories of my own, but the place for idle conversation is not here. Now let’s hurry; the stables aren’t too far from here.”

They didn’t run into any other guards on their way out. Thankfully, the stables weren’t on the opposite side of the castle, but they were far enough away to make Phoenix deal with the constant flutters of paranoia and anxiety.

Franziska von Karma was already waiting at the stables, having saddled her pegasus and Edgeworth’s white steed. Both animals had supply bags hanging off their haunches.

Phoenix let out a low whistle. “Good work.”

Franziska sniffed. “You mean _perfect_.”

“Uh, sure.” Phoenix regarded her with furrowed brows. “You don’t have to do this. Neither of you have to come with me.”

“Allow me to say this again, Wright,” Edgeworth shot him a smirk. “We are both well aware of the possible consequences. We’re doing this because we want to help you. Get that through your skull.”

“I—” Phoenix cleared his throat. “Alright. So where’s my horse?”

“You’re not getting one,” Edgeworth said, patting his horse’s saddle. “My steed is plenty capable of carrying the both of us. With only my horse and Franziska’s pegasus absent, most will assume that we’ve gone for an early morning ride. Hopefully that will buy us some time before anyone notices you’re missing from the dungeons.”

He couldn’t argue with a plan like that, thought to the last detail.

“Well then,” Phoenix smiled, feeling it reach his eyes. “Shall we get going?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was kind of a wild ride. I do have another (significantly shorter) oneshot for this AU. The series of oneshots itself won't be in any chronological order though.


End file.
